Synapses
by lanri
Summary: Sam never wanted to be the freak. This time, he doesn't have a choice in the matter. AU in which Sam doesn't have visions, he reads minds.
1. presynaptic

"Such a beautiful day."

"Yeah," Sam replied absently, taking in the sun-lit campus. "Really is."

"What's that, Sam?"

Sam turned to Jess. "I just agreed with you."

Her lips quirked up in a wry smile. "Agreed with what?"

Sam hesitated. "Didn't you just say what a nice day it is?"

Jess laughed. "No, you must be hearing things. It is really nice though, isn't it?"

Sam echoed her laugh uneasily. He could've sworn . . .

_ "Sam's looking so tired, I am not going to let him stay up late tonight, no sir. Make him some warm cookies, maybe some tea, that'll put him right out."_

Sam came to a halt, their entwined fingers forcing Jess to stop as well. His girlfriend's lips hadn't moved. He hadn't . . . it had been her, though, it didn't make any—

"Sam, you okay?" "_He's looking rather pale, I'll make him tea as soon as we get back—"_

There was a buzzing in Sam's ears, and it was not going away. Incipient whispers like a million needles in his mind, and Sam felt something wet slide down his upper lip.

"Jess," he croaked, and then he heard—

_"I really need to finish this project, or—"_

_ "Dude, she is so into me, I'll ask her out, just gotta get up the courage, c'mon—"_

_ "Ugh, such an awesome day, why am I at school, let's get to the beach—"_

_ "Why hasn't he texted back?"_

_ "Darn it, I'm late—"_

"Sam, what's wrong, Sam, Sam . . ." "_Oh my gosh what is going on should I get help, what—"_

It was overwhelming and Sam couldn't, he could hear it all and it wasn't . . ."

* * *

The first thing Sam was aware of was a beeping noise. A consistent, annoying beeping noise that was not his alarm clock, and therefore he could not shut it off.

"Babe, can you hear me?"

Sam groaned and turned slightly at the sound of Jess's voice, the pounding in his head dulling down a notch. "Jess?" he croaked.

"Yeah, I'm right here. Listen, we're in the hospital, okay? Do you need me to call any of your family? It doesn't seem like this is too serious, the doctors are saying migraine, but . . ."

"No, I'm fine," Sam said. He hadn't quite made it to the point of opening his eyes, but he didn't want to test it. "What happened?" his voice slurred slightly, and his somewhat slow brain prompted him to realize he was on drugs.

"You just passed out, no reason at all." Sam could appreciate how Jess was trying to keep her panic out of her voice. "Scared me half to death, Winchester."

Sam dragged up one corner of his mouth. "I like to keep you on edge."

"You're an idiot." Sam felt soft lips on his own and he smiled fully then, carefully edging his eyes open to take in his beautiful girlfriend.

"Jess," he breathed as she drew back.

"Mmm?"

"Love you."

What Sam loved best about Jess's smiles were the way her eyes lit up. "Love you too. Shall we get you out of this place?"

"Please."

Apparently the flimsy diagnoses were that Sam had—by working too hard and not taking care of himself—triggered a major migraine and giving the reason for his collapse. Sam kept his own theories to himself, carefully not trying to root through his own brain for the source of the problem. He had research of his own to do.

* * *

"Sam, you need to go to bed, what if you get another migraine?"

Sam snapped his laptop shut and stood with a groan. "You're right, sorry," he said meaninglessly. Just barely, he reached out and touched Jess's mind, hearing a mix of her thoughts, some planning ahead, some reflecting on older memories, and the majority focusing on Sam.

Just as quickly he wrenched his mind back under his control. No, he would not be a psychic freak. He was normal. He had gotten out, and whatever freak thing this was, it would go away. Sam wouldn't use it at all.

Jess startled him by throwing an arm around his neck and kissing his cheek, and he was overwhelmed by a flood of emotions from her or from him, he couldn't tell.

"You hanging in there?" he murmured.

"Course I am, you know me." Jess kissed him on the temple and Sam felt a twinge of guilt—definitely his own emotion this time—at the continued guilt from keeping his own many many secrets.

"What do you want to do next weekend?" he asked as she moved away to get ready for bed.

Jess replied, "there's a Halloween party, remember?"

"I'm not dressing up," Sam warned.

"You're such a party pooper."

"That's why you love me."

Jess grinned at him affectionately. "C'mon, doofus, bed."

* * *

Dutifully, Sam categorized the aspects about his new ability as if he himself was a hunt. Not like he would ever, ever tell anyone, but it was still important to know his limitations. Sam found that he automatically could sense people's moods and hear their outermost thoughts. Thankfully there was a strange muted quality and a kind of flavor to the thoughts so that he could tell the difference between that and words spoken aloud.

Sam didn't try to delve deeper. He had unconsciously shoved up shields when he had been overwhelmed, and there was no reason to delve further. Chances were, he would only end up seeing and hearing the worst of people—Sam wasn't enough of an optimist to risk that.

It would work. It had to. Sam was smart enough to keep it all under wraps, ignoring the nasty thoughts that occasionally flitted through the mind of those around him and focusing on his work and on Jess.

It was perfect.

* * *

Sam woke with a start at the feel of another mind in his house. Thief, he instantly assumed, silently unlocking his bedside drawer and withdrawing his gun. No need to shoot first, so he tucked it into the back of his pants and kept his fists raised.

Briefly, he thought that he could probably subdue the intruder with his mind, but, well, the repercussions of that . . .

Sam caught the tail end of a thought—"_wonder why Sammy's got so much junk around, maybe he's got a roommate"_—and was caught completely off guard. It couldn't . . .

He was jumped, slammed onto his back, and Sam stared up at his brother.

"Dean?"

His brother grinned down at him, the relief coming across palpably, quick words like _Sammy, safe, not hurt, taller._

And, as Sam should've expected, a derision at how easy it was to take him down. Sam allowed the flare of defensiveness to kick up in his gut and flipped them before helping Dean up.

He got another rush of thoughts and emotions from Dean and then Sam suddenly realized what he was doing. He was becoming a freak in front of his brother, stealing without his knowledge—

Sam clamped down on his shields, hard. And it was blessedly quiet. He hadn't known he could do that.

Going with Dean on his hunt seemed like a natural conclusion, though Sam couldn't help the uneasy feeling of leaving Jess behind.

But it would be fine.

* * *

Sam had forgotten so much. Being with Dean on a case was like a rush of memories that he had been suppressing, and every time he looked over at Dean he felt a flare of guilt and regret at never having called, at having shut Dean out so thoroughly. Sure, the last time he had seen him was when their dad had essentially disowned him, but that was no reason to shut Dean out.

"So, little brother, what's changed?"

Sam stretched back against the Impala's familiar seats. "Little? We both know I'm the taller one now," he teased.

"Yeah, and you wanna pull over and see if that height does anything to help you?" Dean arched an eyebrow at Sam and Sam grinned helplessly. His shields lowered a little, he was able to feel Dean's contentment and a brush of thoughts containing memories of the past when they used to taunt each other.

"I've missed you," Sam blurted, suddenly feeling an overwhelming need to make sure Dean knew that.

Dean's grin faded a little. "Things may have changed, Sammy, but do we need to have mushy girly moments? No, I don't think so."

Properly chastened, Sam glowered at the car floor and muttered, "it's Sam."

"You'll always be Sammy to me."

"Shaddap."

* * *

The job went relatively well, and Sam should've realized that it was only lulling him into a false sense of security. The instant Dean parked the Impala outside the apartment, Sam went completely still as he heard the cries of pain and fear from Jess in his mind.

"Sam!" the shout came from behind him, but Sam ignored it as he raced up the stairs. Jess would be fine, he would save her, because that's what they did. Killed the bad things, saved the girls.

Sam burst into the apartment and found everything fine.

"Jess?" he called loudly.

No sound, but he could hear her screaming for him from the other room in his mind. Sam shoved his way into the room desperately, looking around frantically until his eyes were drawn to the ceiling.

The blood on her abdomen . . . Jess's mouth was in the shape of his name, and her eyes—Sam leapt up on the bed, reaching up to pull her down when the flames burst from around her and crawled along the ceiling with a speed far from normal.

"Jess!" Sam felt the heat along his forearms and hands as he scrambled to get a hold of Jess. He could save her, he could.

"Sam!" A yank around Sam's middle pulled Sam away, and he cried out in desperation as his brother dragged him out of the apartment.

It couldn't end like this.

But it did.

* * *

**A/N:** I AM TERRIBLE WHY AM I STARTING ANOTHER AU WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME UGH

*cough*

anyway, yeah. Never fear, Unseen will continue, and I will, one way or another, make it to the S3 finale. I promise. (uh oh, maybe I shouldn't've done that. fjkdlsafjk;d)

I am posting this because I FINALLY WROTE SOME FANFIC AND I NEED TO MAKE MYSELF WRITE. Thus, this. I will be simultaneously posting to AO3 . . . check it out there if you happen to love me and leave me some kudos there :D) -my username's lanri, title of the fanfic will be the same.


	2. input

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Dean glanced at Sam, who sat in the passenger seat like he didn't know if he belonged there anymore.

"Are you sure you wanna go straight to the coordinates?" he checked. "It hasn't been that long."

Sam's eyes turned as if he was tempted to look behind them to where they left Palo Alto and Jess's grave.

"There's nothing left for me here," he said softly, and Dean winced, regretting his earlier bitter thoughts towards the place, even towards Jess. Sam had been happy there, finally in a place he had fit in, and Dean couldn't help but think that he was dragging his brother back into the life that he hated.

Sam seemed to pull himself out of his own headspace and tilted his face towards Dean. "So, your over-abundant love for ridiculous music—that was just over the weekend to annoy me on purpose?"

Dean hesitated in the space between admitting that he didn't want to bother Sam and that he liked having the option of Sam talking to him. Okay, well, the latter he would never admit, he needed a better excuse.

"Dean, I won't mind, I promise. I know you hate silence."

His brother knew him too well. Dean grimaced and shoved in a cassette tape. "Well, except for star watching," he said, trying to cover up the awkward pause. "Dude, you talk during that time or play any funky music and I'll have to disown you." And, of course, he had just stumbled into another minefield, what with the way Sam and their Dad had . . .

"Dean, c'mon, I haven't forgotten _everything_," Sam responded, pinning Dean with a discerning look. "When have I ever tried to talk during that time? You're the one who burps."

"Am not," Dean automatically defended.

"Are too." Sam sank back into the seat, smirking and looking far less like the grieving man that Dean had seen for the past week. Progress. That was good.

Sam twitched and looked out the front windshield, and in that millisecond, Dean had lost him.

"We'll find Dad," Dean said softly. "We'll figure this out." He'd do anything to get Sam to really smile, but maybe he never would again.

"Yeah." Sam's hands were clenched into fists on his knees. "We will."

* * *

Dean was good at letting things slide. Well, sort of.

He had expected Sam to be different. Hadn't seen the guy in years, add on the death of his girlfriend and it was expected.

Still, there was something that Dean couldn't quite put his finger on.

The case with Bloody Mary, of course, blew his suspicions into the area of well-founded and possibly very very accurate.

"So, still gonna be mum about this?" Dean asked, apropos of nothing as they headed for St. Louis.

"The case?" Sam finally put down his phone, which he had been staring at for a few minutes.

"No." Dean didn't really feel like explaining, and angrily glared at the semi that had pulled out in front of him for no reason.

Sam seemed to gather what he was talking about from his face, because he sighed. "Dean, I'm sorry, this is . . . it's personal."

"Yeah, well, we're . . . personal." Dean winced at the awkward phrasing. "I'm your brother," he finally said gruffly. "If you can't trust me, then who can you trust?"

Sam fidgeted, a sure sign when he was guilty or just agitated. Dean couldn't tell which.

"Not yet," he said softly. "I will, Dean, just . . . give me time?"

Dean pressed the pedal down as the semi moved back into the right lane where it belonged. "S'long as you don't take too long," he told Sam grudgingly.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam said, the grateful puppy-dog look on his face more appropriate for a toddler with a lollipop than anything.

Dean, his attention on the road, was startled by a strange gasping sound from Sam, and whipped his head around in case his idiot brother decided to have a heart attack right in the car.

"What is it?" he demanded.

"Nothing." Sam had his hand over his mouth, and from the set of his face, Dean could almost swear his brother was trying to stop a smile.

"You are such a freak," Dean said under his breath, and when he looked at Sam again, he had gone utterly still. "Sam?"

Sam twitched. "Let's get to St. Louis."

* * *

Dean would take back every time he had ever wished Sam to stay in the hunt with him. The sight of Sam being choked to death by himself—no, not himself, the shifter—would definitely stay with him for a while.

He glanced over anxiously at the passenger seat, where Sam was holding himself stiffly, pain written into every line of his lean body.

"Hang in there, Sammy, we get far enough away from St. Louis and we can doctor you up, okay?" Dean promised recklessly. He didn't want to go to jail, but with the way Sam was looking . . . he hadn't even complained about the nickname.

"Just keep driving, Dean." Sam's eyes looked a little manic, now that Dean noticed it, with his quick glances in-between paying attention to the road.

"Sam, you aren't bleeding out, no internal bleeding or anything serious, right? You know the signs, and don't do some martyr business just because the cops have our number, you die and—"

"No, Dean, I'm fine, keep driving."

Dean didn't even deign to snort at that blatant mistruth, but continued to guide the Impala through the growing traffic. How was it morning already? Rush hour was about to catch up with them.

"Can you go any faster?"

Dean looked in astonishment at Sam, who was always berating him for going as fast as he did. "I go any faster and we're asking for attention from the police," he said slowly. "Why?"

Sam twitched violently, one hand going up to his head. "Need to get out of the city," he ground out. Dean could actually hear his teeth scraping together.

"Sammy, we'll be fine. They think I'm dead, remember?"

Sam brought his other hand up to his head and Dean started really worrying. His little brother was holding his head as if it was about to fall apart.

"Maybe we should stop, Sam, you're not looking so great," Dean suggested.

Sam's eyes snapped onto him, and one blood vessel in his eye had popped due to the terrific shiner developing. "No. Have to get away, too many people. So many. Have to . . . have to focus. Focus," Sam hissed, gaze going past Dean to stare out at the city. And from what Dean could tell, he wasn't admiring the Arch.

"Sam, what's going on?" Dean asked sharply.

"I'll explain, I promise, I promise, anything you want, just get me away please there's so many, it's too much, I can't—" Sam's eyes rolled back into his head and he flopped back so that his head was lolling across the bench seat.

"Sam!" Terrified, Dean drove one-handed while simultaneously using his right to search out Sam's pulse. It was rabbiting under his finger tips and Dean bit his lip. Try and find an exit for a hospital? Or listen to Sam's plea to get out of the city? He had thought at first it was leftover fear from the run-in with the authorities, but Sam had sounded pretty strung out, not just from that.

What was he supposed to do?

* * *

Dean watched through gritty eyes as Sam slowly came into awareness again. Under normal circumstances, he would have been gratified at the way Sam relaxed as soon as he caught sight of Dean—no lingering traces of the shifter's psychological scars on Sam, at least—but as it was, he was trying to avoid freaking out or blowing up.

"Dean," Sam croaked. Silently, Dean handed him water.

"We're in the hunt together, Sam," he said abruptly. "I didn't take you to a hospital because I trusted you. Give me a reason for me to keep that faith in you."

Sam's eyes turned liquid, full of the emotions that Sam always carried there.

"Dean, it's . . ." he swallowed convulsively. "I . . ."

"I'm waiting."

"I know, it's—" Sam raked a hand through his hair and peeked up at Dean. "I can read people's minds."

Out of all the answers Sam might've given him, that had been the last Dean had expected. He blinked.

"Come again?"

"It started about a week before—" Sam swallowed again, "—Jess. I started hearing everyone, collapsed and scared her half to . . ." Sam suddenly laughed bitterly, and Dean hadn't missed the terrible irony. "I don't know why. I researched it, but there isn't much conclusive research on psychics or telepaths or whatever I am."

Dean was still trying to process, and fell back on his old standby of humor. "What number am I thinking of?"

"You haven't thought of one yet, you're too busy trying to stall," Sam said dully. "I'm not making this up."

Dean breathed. Deep ones. "So, in the Impala . . ."

"I was weak, after the fight with the shapeshifter. My shields were too weak, and once I started losing my grip on them, it got too bad and I couldn't take it."

"Shields," Dean repeated stupidly. "To keep people's heads out of your head?"

Sam nodded, wincing when the motion pulled at the wicked bruises on his throat. "Yeah, something like that."

"Huh." Dean stared at Sam, feeling thrown. And then it clicked. "That explains it!" he said excitedly. "I knew something was different about the way you were interacting with people, and that didn't make sense, cuz if anything about a person doesn't change, it's how they act with strangers, and it didn't make sense how you were connecting so easily instead of being all cool and stand-offish initially—I mean, you get close once you get to know someone—but really it's because you were cheating and reading their minds. Ha!" Dean finished his triumph by grinning down at Sam and finding Sam looking like a total doofus grinning back at him. "What?" Dean asked warily.

"You're loud. And happy. I like it when you're happy."

Dean couldn't decide whether to make fun of Sam for being a sap or just roll his eyes, so he settled it by doing both. "Okay, I'll start channeling my inner peace and meditating, if that helps."

Sam smiled, his blinks were growing slower, and Dean remembered that Sam had nearly been beaten to death not too long ago.

"Sleep, Sam," he said softly, trying to not let the panic he was feeling swamp him. Chances were Sam could tell, anyway, but at the very least he could attempt to let him get some rest. "We'll talk later."

* * *

**A/N:** I know I'm probably getting your hopes up by posting a new chapter one week after the first, but fair warning, finals are approaching (noooo) and updates will be sporadic. That said, hope you enjoyed this one!


	3. glia

"So. You can completely turn off this telepathy gig?"

Sam jumped at the unexpected words. "Huh?"

"I've been mentally calling you names for the past five minutes." Dean drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. "Have you ever tried talking into someone's head?"

"I, uh, no," Sam stammered.

"You could try. Might come in handy on hunts."

Sam considered it briefly. "Yeah. Not while we're driving though."

"Ah."

Sam desperately wanted to read his brother, but resisted the impulse.

"What's it like, then?"

"Reading people?" Sam shifted in his seat. "I—it's hard to describe."

"Give it a try."

"It's like . . . everyone is on a different frequency, like radio stations. But when my shields are down, I can hear all the frequencies at once."

"And it's just words? Like people talking?"

Sam shook his head. "Yes and no. The outer layer is made up of their immediate thoughts, mostly words and some pictures and emotions. I think deeper would . . . be different. I haven't tried to do that yet."

"Okay." Dean seemed to fall into contemplation, and Sam stared out the window. He wondered if Dean was thinking about him as a freak yet. Probably. He had always been the freak in their family, what was one more strange talent to add to the mix?

"Dude, we would wipe the tables at poker games. Can we go to Vegas?" Dean suddenly said.

"Um, Dean, the thing that killed Jess? Finding Dad? Ring a bell?"

Dean pouted at him, the expression ultimately not working on his face. "Just for the weekend? C'mon, Sammy, have a heart."

Then again, while Dean didn't have the face to pull it off, he sure did have the voice. Sam hunkered down in the Impala's seat and sighed. "Do we need money?"

"If you'd rather not use all of the fake credit cards . . ." Dean wheedled.

Sam narrowed his eyes at his brother. "Only a weekend. I say we go and we go. Got it?"

Dean grinned, and Sam could feel the pulsing glee. "You got it, Sammy."

* * *

"Dude, this is awesome. You'll be able to tell who the bad guys are now without even trying. Do you know how good we'll be, hunting?"

Sam scrubbed his face wearily. "Pretty sure I can't read ghosts," he murmured.

"Yeah," Dean conceded. Sam jumped when his brother's hand landed on his shoulder. "Hey, you okay?"

"Tired," Sam mumbled. Jess used to make him tea when he got this exhausted—Sam buried himself farther away, even though he knew Dean was trying to be there for him.

"Must've been a lot of work, sifting through those idiot's heads to find the image of their cards, huh?" Dean said, a surprisingly discerning comment from him.

"Mmm." Sam rubbed at his forehead and thought about a shower before discarding the impulse.

"Get some rest, Sammy. We'll get back to work as soon as you're ready."

Sam flopped back on his bed, trying to will his headache away as he shored up his mental walls.

The brush of fingertips across his forehead helped the rest of the tension leech away, and Sam pressed into the hand, taking comfort from the touch. In the brief moments before he fell asleep, he could've sworn he heard: "You're gonna be fine, Sammy. I promise."

* * *

It was easier, knowing that Dean knew. Sam was able to relax, use his telepathy casually in hunting without having to worry about what Dean would think when he knew intimate details of the victim's testimonies that they never said.

That didn't mean it was completely easy.

"I want you to, Sam."

Sam shifted on the bed, feeling oddly vulnerable because he was sitting and Dean was standing above him.

"Dean, it's a bad idea. What if I get . . . stuck or something?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yes, well, better now than when it's accidental or something. I know you can do it, Sammy."

Sam eyed him warily. "Then why would you want me to? You hate talking about your feelings and repressed, stunted emotions as it is, you do realize that me being in your brain will mean I see everything?"

Finally, Dean's mask broke a little, and Sam saw some of the shifting uncomfortableness that he knew his brother was really feeling. "Yeah. I know. And it's not like . . ." Dean cast Sam a pained look. "If you go in, you're going to see some things I never wanted you to see. But we need to know what your abilities entail. Just . . . promise me you won't hate me?"

Sam softened. "I could never hate you, Dean."

"We'll see about that," Dean muttered.

Sam bit his lip.

And entered.

The rabbiting pattern of Dean's thoughts started with initial emotions—nervousness, maybe a slight fear, but an undercurrent of trust in Sam. Some wayward, half-formed sentences whispered in Sam's—Dean's—mind, saying that he should think of good things, he didn't want to let Sam see . . . the more Dean tried to repress, the more thoughts of the bad hunts rose before Sam's eyes and he saw his brother at his lowest. He saw his brother lash out in rage and hurt an innocent passerby, and oh, it was all his fault, no wonder Sammy had left, if Dean was such an awful . . . he was so lonely, maybe it'd be better if he was dead . . .

Sam went deeper, inter-webs of memory spread out before him. He touched one, and a million thoughts sprang up—the sight of a shotgun made Dean think of hunting, the sight of a college student made Dean think of Stanford . . .

Dean hated Stanford with a horrible, burning hatred that was irrational and he knew it. But how could Sam leave him? Dean had always been there for Sam, and how did he repay him? By leaving. Rejecting him. The—numerous insults spat themselves at him, rapid fire.

Resentment rose up like bile, Sam's or Dean's, he couldn't tell, and Sam escaped, choking back what felt like tears. He hadn't meant to hurt Dean, he just . . .

Sam gasped. He could feel it, not a memory, not a feeling, but something powerful, beautiful, made up of love and truth and _Dean_ . . .

. . . and he suddenly knew that if he wanted to, he could destroy it with a thought.

Sam yanked back, pulling away from Dean's mind and feeling pain wash over him—his pain? Dean's had he hurt Dean?—and then blackness.

* * *

"Sammy? Please, Sammy, I need you to wake up, okay? You were right, this was a stupid idea. Wake up and bitch at me about it, please?"

Sam groaned.

"That's it. Open your eyes, Sam. C'mon, do it for me."

The light had dimmed—it wasn't midday anymore, or maybe the blinds were shut. Dean—no, he was Sam—Sam squinted miserably, and whispered "ow."

"What hurts, Sammy? No, don't shut those eyes—" Dean preemptively stopped Sam from escaping by touching the corner of his eye "—I need you to focus, okay? We need your shields up, focus, Sam."

Then Sam realized that the wave of whispering and thoughts was not his own, and shut them out, feeling the ache in his head from overexertion.

"Ow," he repeated.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, Sam. I don't know what happened, to be honest I couldn't even tell you were in my brain, except I kept having weird thoughts that didn't seem like my own. Are you okay? Noggin intact?"

There was a desperate fear leaking off of Dean, and Sam managed to flop one hand onto Dean's forearm and grasp it weakly. "Don't leave," he pleaded. "Don't hate me."

"Sam, why would I hate you?"

His eyes were hot and aching, and Sam didn't know why. "Freak, always a freak, left you alone, didn't want . . ."

"Hey, Sam. Don't cry, little brother, I'm right here." Rough calluses brushed underneath Sam's wet eyes, and chapped lips pressed against his forehead. "Sleep, Sammy. Just stay in your own mind. You're Sam Winchester, hunter extraordinaire and genius, remember? You're you."

Sam slept.

* * *

"Alright, lemme hear it."

"Mmm?" Sam looked up from his humongous coffee—good, rich coffee, just the way he liked it—to see Dean standing with his hands on his hips.

"I know you want to say it, just tell me 'I told you so.'"

Sam turned up his lips wryly. "Dean, I agreed to it. I'm just glad I didn't melt your brain accidentally."

"Oh." Dean flopped down on the chair opposite Sam's. "Okay, then. So, what was it like?"

Sam searched for the words. "It was . . . I could feel you, all of you."

"Kinky," Dean smirked, and Sam swatted him.

"I think I felt your soul," Sam said after a pause. "It was you. I can still sense you now."

Dean pursed his lips. "Soul?" he said skeptically. "Okay. Well, what about practical applications?"

Sam rolled his cup between his hands. "I think, if we're ever separated, you can call and I'll hear you."

_ "Like this?"_

Sam jumped. "Not so loud," he complained.

Dean grinned. "Okay, okay. No overloading though. I do not want to wipe away blood coming out of your ears and nose again, got it?"

Sam nodded obediently.

"Anything else?"

Sam swallowed. "I think . . . if I really wanted to, I could take someone's mind over. Wipe it blank. Kill them," he said. His voice was soft, like that could make any difference in making Dean see him as less than a freak.

Dean nodded. "Okay. Be careful with that, bro."

That was Dean. Always strong and trusting. Sam gave him a look that he knew was sappy. "Don't change, Dean. And for what it's worth, I didn't want to leave you, when I went to Stanford, just the hunt."

"Ooookay, no need for chick flick territory." Dean stood, rolling his eyes. "I'll let you write in your diary, I need to go check the tire pressure."

Sam grinned into his cup as Dean passed him, one hand reaching out and ruffling Sam's hair.

Maybe, even if Sam was a freak, they would be okay.

* * *

**A/N: **finals are upon us, darlings. This is the last update until, mmm, May? Lol this power is making Sam fall asleep a lot. Hey, telepathy sucks.


	4. voltage

Just because Sammy had some special mind mojo didn't meant Dean would treat him differently. He capped the pen he had been using to draw on Sam's face and faced forward again, grinning. They were stuck in a traffic jam, and Sam had dropped off to sleep half an hour ago.

With a start, Sam woke, just as an ambulance passed on the other side of the road, sirens screaming.

"Hey, sleeping beauty."

Sam groaned, swiping at his mouth with an uncoordinated hand.

"Where are we?"

"Still in traffic, genius." Dean tapped the steering wheel in time to his song and smirked at Sam's hair and decorated face.

"You drew on my face?"

Stupid mind reading tricks. Dean had hoped he could get away with it for at least a day.

"If you weren't thinking so loud about how hilarious I look, you might've," Sam grumbled, speaking to Dean's thoughts. Dean considered that it should be rather off-putting, but since he and his brother knew each other well enough to finish each other's sentences anyway, it was almost normal.

"Shouldn't be too long before we get there," Dean judged, looking at the traffic. "And when I say too long, I mean it should be less than a year or so."

"Ha ha." Sam had tilted the mirror down and was scrubbing at his face. "Could you be any more immature?"

"Would you like me to be?" Dean asked innocently.

Sam rolled his eyes. Out of the corner of Dean's own, he noticed how stiffly Sam was holding himself.

"If you wanna get out and run beside the Impala, chances are you'll get to where we're headed faster than me." Dean tossed Sam a careless grin.

"Mmm." Sam rubbed the heel of his hand into his forehead. "Think it'll be a lot longer?"

"Probably. Headache?" Dean asked casually.

Sam shrugged. "Everyone's irritated. Stressed."

Dean frowned. "Can you go back to sleep, then?"

Sam shrugged, and Dean sighed. This would be a long drive.

* * *

"Dude. Not cool. I'm not chatting up some shrink, you're gonna do it."

Sam gave him a look that said he was being stupid. "Dean. If I'm going to get the information by reading his mind, then I can't talk about something else at the same time. Plus, if anyone needs therapy, it's you."

Affronted, Dean glowered."Oh yeah, why's that?"

"You have to deal with looking at that face in the mirror every morning, I mean, that's gotta be traumatic," Sam smirked, pleased with his own cleverness.

"Oh, you little bitch." Dean yanked Sam's hair and Sam yelped.

"Jerk," he muttered, rubbing his head.

"Fine, I'll go get psychoanalyzed. No listening in."

"Yessir." Sam mock saluted and got out of the Impala before Dean could punch him.

The good Dr. Ellicott, irritatingly enough, had a very comfortable couch. "So, Dean, is it?"

Dean slouched on aforementioned too-comfortable couch. "Yeah, that's me."

"What would you like to talk about, today?"

Dean brightened. "I was looking into that asylum. Know anything about it?"

Dr. Ellicott looked at him too knowingly. "Don't avoid the issue here, Dean. We're here to talk about you."

Dean put a strained smile on his face. "Alright, then."

"So, what's going on in your life?"

Dean noticed he was bouncing his leg and consciously stopped it. "On a road trip with my brother. It's great."

"Yes, it could be." Dr. Ellicott gave him a discerning look. "But being in such a small space with a relative can be stressful. How is your relationship with your brother?"  
"Great."

"No trouble? No resentment building up?" Ellicott asked mildly.

Dean glowered. "Don't try and put words in my mouth. We're great."

"So, the lack of privacy doesn't bother you?"

Dean licked his lips nervously. "I mean, sure, it'd be nice to have a little more space, but nah, we're good."

"So when you're not road tripping, what do you do?"

He plastered on a grin. "I'm more of a drifter, myself."

"And your brother?" Dr. Ellicott raised an eyebrow.

Dean winced. "Um, yeah, not until recently. His stuff fell through, so he's been tagging along with me."

"I see. And how does that make you feel?"

* * *

White hot rage was swirling through Dean's veins, freeing him and lighting up his nerves. He felt blood dripping out of his nose and angrily scrubbed it away. He could hear Sam, the traitor, and crept up behind him. He held his gun out like he would shoot Dean. Well, Dean wouldn't let that happen. He slammed the stock of his gun across Sam's upper back, forcing his little brother to stumble.

"Dean, it's me."

Dean sneered. "I know who you are. Sam. Always doing whatever you want and not even caring about us at all. In my head all the time but you don't even care about me." He had never hated anyone more in his life.

"Dean, this isn't you, c'mon."

"You left me!"

Dean snarled and lunged at him, but Sam dodged. Dean could shoot him, but . . . well, Dean couldn't kill him, right? Though maybe he should. Sam dodged his blow and—Dean shuddered. An electric shock shuddered through his nerves and his brain, like something was trying to fight back. He needed to shoot Sam. No, he didn't, did he? He needed to protect Sam, he had to . . .

"Dean?" There was blood coming out of Sam's nose as well. Dean dazedly stared at him. "Are you back?" Back from where?

He was distracted, and too late he shouted as Ellicott came up behind Sam. "Sammy, look out!"

Dean could vaguely remember Ellicott touching his mind, feeling a shock of pain, and then the unadulterated rage, still in control of his body. Sam, though, went down like a sack of bricks. Dean roared, rage directed—finally—at the right source. He blew Ellicott away and went for the bones.

"Sammy? C'mon, don't die, the ghost is dead. You can handle a little ghost shocking, can't you?" He rolled Sam onto his back and brushed away the blood.

Sam's eyes were trying to focus on him, but couldn't quite make it. Dean bit his lip, hard, levering Sam over his shoulder to carry him out. The kids were probably still in the asylum, but they could get themselves out.

But, well, Dean couldn't exactly carry Sam over a tall fence. Sam pawed at his back and Dean set him down slowly. "Easy, Sammy. You okay?"

Sam managed to cough. "Yeah. That was not fun."

"I hear ya. We need to get out of this place. Should I go get some heavy duty clippers and come back to get you out that way?" Dean asked earnestly.

Sam shook his head slowly. "Just . . . boost me up."

Dean frowned. "Sam . . ."

"Do it." He managed to stand, and Dean sighed heavily.

"Careful when you land."

At least Sam managed to land on his feet, even though his legs did crumple beneath him and he ended up on hands and knees. Dean swung himself over the fence and growled like an angry mama bear, getting Sam into the car. Not that he thought of himself as a mother bear, that was stupid.

* * *

"We're okay, right?" Dean asked abruptly, one hundred miles away from Rockford.

"Mmm. Sleep now, chick flick later," Sam mumbled.

"You're a little snot," Dean muttered, but couldn't help feeling guilt pressing heavy in his gut at what he had said to his little brother. "Sam, I didn't mean those things I said."

Sam's hand flopped like a dying fish onto Dean's shoulder. "You did. S'okay. Everyone's got something they're mad about, s'human kinda . . . thingie."

"Thingie?"

"Shaddap. I had my brain fried, I deserve a break."

"So did I," Dean shot back mildly. In the back of his mind he calculated the chances that Ellicott's shocking might've done actual damage. Should they go to a clinic? Get an MRI? He would have to be on the lookout for any signs.

Sam childishly stuck out his tongue.

"So, you are okay? I mean, all that stuff about you leaving . . . I was proud of you getting into Stanford, y'know, I just . . . resent it. I try not to, but I can't really help it." Dean swallowed, gripping the steering wheel tightly. If he were the mind reader, he would be prying into Sam's right now to know what he was thinking. Probably that Dean was a pathetic excuse for an older brother.

Sam sighed, noisily.

"Remember the part where I can read your mind, idiot? I know all of this. Maybe if I didn't know what you were thinking I might get mad, but, well—" Sam shrugged "—we're in this together. And I know you're trying your best. Now, if you want to continue emoting, do so to the car, she'll listen to you." Sam curled up on the seat like he had when he was 13, head on Dean's leg and his own legs awkwardly falling over the edge. Dean felt nostalgia rearing its head and swallowed thickly, letting a hand drop onto Sam's shoulder. He frowned at how bony it was.

"Hey, are you eating enough?" He poked Sam, feeling wiry muscle and ribs too close to the surface.

"Why, need to use me as bait for Hanzel and Gretel's witch?" Sam mumbled.

"Seriously, Sam. I know you're missing Jessica—" underneath Dean's palm, Sam's heart rate picked up "—but that's no excuse for not taking care of yourself."

And . . . darn it. Dean felt tears start to soak into his jeans and wanted to sigh with resignation. Sometimes Jessica's death seemed to hit Sam out of nowhere all over again and rip his lungs out. Sam made to sit up and pull away but Dean kept pressure with his hand on the juncture between Sam's shoulder and neck, eyes on the road. "It's okay, bro."

"I felt her die, Dean," his little brother shuddered under his hand. "She left, and I didn't do anything."

"You couldn't, Sammy. It's okay to miss her, though. But it's not your fault."

Sam closed his eyes, the denim damp underneath him. "Isn't it?" he whispered.

"No. It's not," Dean said strongly, but a glance at Sam's tear-stained face told him that Sam was far from believing that, yet. It was another twenty miles before Sam's body finally relaxed, despite the awkward position, and Dean allowed himself to sigh.

"Look at the two of us, kiddo," he mumbled, the open road like every other they had been on ahead of him. "We're never gonna make it."

* * *

**A/N: **done with finals! Thanks for all the well wishes in your wonderful reviews-they went okay (I hope!) I do have a busy summer planned, but with any luck I'll have enough time/inspiration to keep writing. Let me know what you think, and if you have any ideas where this story could go (especially for an ending . . . I'm really not sure). Reviews are love :)

I CHANGED MY USERNAME FROM MIZU IRUKA TO **LANRI** NEVER FEAR I AM STILL THE SAME PERSON IT'S ALL GOOD :D


	5. axon

Things were still tentative between them. After the asylum, and then the freaky case with the scarecrow, there were still some torn bonds that needed mending. Sam had come close to leaving, but he hadn't (and thank goodness or they would be dead if Sam hadn't been able to read the townspeople and know what they were doing).

But they were good. Even this hunt . . . well, Sam was sure it was going to be fine. As long as he could get back to Dean to help him out.

Sam felt the distinct roar of adrenaline in his veins as he carried the children out. Their terror was only a distraction, his own mind focused on the heady intensity of suspense that Dean was experiencing as he rooted out the rawhead.

Setting the kids down, he told them urgently, "stay here, I'll be right back."

Sam darted back into the dilapidated house, the grip on his gun, his fingers locked tight. Not that the gun would do much good—Dean had his taser though, so this was all he had. Chances were that Dean would get the rawhead before he even got down, but still.

Sam felt a flash of panic and fear that nearly halted him in his tracks. _He was going to get shocked but he had to shoot it and—_

"Dean!" he roared, both mentally and vocally, pounding down the stairs to the basement. His brother was unconscious, that was all, probably just knocked into a wall, which would explain the flare of pain.

But as Sam skidded to a stop at the bottom, his eyes adjusting quickly, he saw the carcass of the rawhead and Dean on the floor. The wet floor.

_ No._

Sam darted to Dean's side, finger's feeling for a pulse. Nothing. Sam started CPR, desperately searching with his mind for Dean's, trying to wake him up. Could he wake someone up? He had never tried.

"Dean, c'mon," he grunted, counting out compressions. "Don't do this, man." A couple breaths, and he got back into rhythm, trying to use enough force, but not too much.

There it was. Dean choked, and then he was wheezing, short little breaths that were far too weak for Sam's taste. For a moment, Sam rested in the reassurance that he could feel Dean's mind again, and then he dipped down, hoisting Dean up against his chest.

"S'm."

"I'm here, Dean, just hang on," Sam carefully made his way upstairs—he could hear sirens, so hopefully the kids had run over to the neighbor's house and gotten help. He thought briefly of St. Louis . . . but no, there would be no connection unless they dug.

"Breathe, Dean," Sam whispered as Dean's chest stuttered in its rhythm. Sam projected calm and comfort as best he could, even as paramedics took Dean from his arms.

He couldn't lose Dean. He just couldn't.

* * *

Sam could taste the resignation coloring Dean's thoughts, and so he pushed himself heavily, keeping his shields at maximum level.

"Hey idiot, I've been talking for a minute, and you aren't even listening, are you?"

Sam flinched at the noise. "What?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "What's the point of having special mind powers if you won't have secret conversations via brain radio?"

"Right. Sorry." He wasn't.

"Dude, let's go somewhere cool."

Sam could read the underlying message without his telepathy—I want to die somewhere other than this awful motel room—and he was having none of it. "We're heading to Nebraska," he announced.

Dean's shadowed eyes looked at him with surprise. "What's there?"

"Faith healer."

Sam had let his shields drop, so he could feel the blatant amusement. "Sammy, c'mon. I've had a good run, y'know? I'm not afraid to die."

Sam shut his laptop with a snap. "I'm not going to feel you die in my head, Dean. I refuse. So get over it."

Dean paled, his already-white face going paper white. Sam didn't wait for him to speak, throwing their duffels over his shoulder. "I'm driving."

* * *

The instant they stepped out of the car, Sam felt _everything_ wash over him. Emotions, sharp as knives, people desperate for a cure, disbelief mixed with a fervent faith that was heady with its strength.

Sam had to concentrate. Picking their way through the mud, it was easy enough to keep his mind focused on Dean's and block out everyone else's. If he wasn't careful, he would get lost in despair for the desperate people.

"Go on, Sammy." Dean nudged his shoulder as they sat down near the front. "Pick his mind, see if he's a quack."

Sam shook his head.

"Dude, what if he's doing something wrong," Dean hissed.

Sam bit his lip. "It's called faith for a reason, Dean," he replied.

Dean looked outraged, but then the service started. Sam steadfastly kept his mind closed as the man's blind eyes moved over to Dean, praying with every fiber of his being that his brother would be healed. He would give anything.

* * *

"I swear, I saw something, Sam. I don't know what your issue is, but you need to read their minds right now."

Sam placed a hand over Dean's heart, letting the steady beat thump against his hand for a moment. "Okay. I can do that."

"Sammy . . ."

He closed his eyes and carefully let himself reach out, touching different minds one by one before moving on. When he touched Layla—the girl with so much faith—he allowed himself to pause for a moment and take strength from her courage before moving on.

He came back to a worried Dean and blood under his nose. "It's Sue Ann. The wife. LeGrange has no idea, but she's leashed up a reaper. There's an altar and something else."

"Right." Dean stood up stiffly. "I'll handle it."

"No, Dean." Sam stood too quickly, swaying. "You almost died. I can do it." He could hear Dean's protest reverberating through his mind, but ignored it.

After Sam took out the altar, he headed for the woman.

"You need to stop," he said, sounding—he thought—properly intimidating.

She looked at him askance. "Your brother was healed, and you would threaten me?"

"Please," Sam pleaded. "You don't know what you're messing with. Reapers? That's just asking for trouble."

"How did you—"

"It's wrong. No matter how you think you're doing God's work, you're not." Sam stood in front of her, keeping her from running. "Call the reaper off. Stop this."

"Never," Sue Ann snarled, backing up.

Sam closed his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. He drew the information from her mind and snatched away the necklace, smashing it to the ground. It was the oldest hunter trick in the book. To avoid killing a human, have their pet evil baddie do it for you.

Sam felt her die, a sensation that was fast leading him to despise everything evil. As if he didn't have enough motivation to keep hunting and keep people from dying.

* * *

It was only as they sat in the motel that Dean broke the silence.

"You could have known, and you didn't."

Sam closed his eyes. "Yes."

"An innocent person died because of me."

"Because of me," Sam murmured. "I can carry that guilt. Don't take that on your own shoulders."

Dean's fingers blanched white where his fists were clenched on his knees. "Sam, you deliberately didn't use your gift, so yeah it's your fault and it's mine. This gift, curse, whatever it is—you misuse it like that and you're as bad as Sue Ann."

Sam felt his breath catch in his throat—it was the first time Dean had admitted to his misgivings about Sam's abilities. "I didn't . . . I thought Roy was legitimate. Not . . ."

"I know that, Sam. But this whole thing felt wrong, and someone died because of me."

"I just wanted to have faith." Sam slammed his eyes shut and felt his hands rhythmically opening and closing.

"Sammy . . ." Dean said, sounding helpless. "It doesn't feel right."

Sam jerked his head in a nod.

"I need to know what you're thinking."

Sam paused. "What if you could?" he murmured.

Dean shot him a glance before returning his gaze to the floor. "What are you talking about?"

"We've established that I can hear your thoughts and transfer thoughts to you. What if I could—open my mind?"

Dean hesitated. "Wouldn't that be dangerous?"

"I don't know." Sam bit his lip. "It could be dangerous for you."

"I meant for you, idiot," Dean said, his tone lacking its usual bite.

Sam shrugged.

"Do it," Dean bit out suddenly. "I need you . . . you know everything I think, just for once I need to know you."

"Try not to fight it," Sam whispered. He wanted to reach out to Dean, but knew instinctively his touch would be unwelcome. Instead, he pressed his fingertips against his skull and began breaking down his walls, creating a kind of channel towards Dean.

It was tempting, but Sam did not edit back the parts of himself that Dean might not like—his anger towards their father, his irritation at Dean for not taking his side, and his dislike for hunting.

Sam heard Dean inhale swiftly, and opened his eyes to see Dean's roll back into his head.

"Dean!"

His brother was too still—_again_—and Sam grabbed his shoulders, shaking him slightly.

"Don't be dead, don't be dead, please, not again."

Dean groaned, eyes scrunched in his typical sign of pain. "Is that what it feels like for you?"

"You're okay? Please be okay."

"Sam, calm down, you're going to have a panic attack. Breathe." Dean grabbed Sam's shoulder and levered himself into a sitting position.

"Stop scaring me like that," Sam said with a shudder. "I can't—" He swallowed his words. Dean didn't want to hear that.

"I know what you're thinking now, Sammy. Sorry for not seeing it, before," Dean said suddenly.

Sam frowned. "Seeing what?"

"I guess . . . I didn't really think you cared that much."

Sam had no idea how to respond. "Um . . . why not?"

"You—" Dean looked shifty and guilty. "For three years you didn't call me, and I just thought—"

"—that meant I didn't need you," Sam finished for him.

Dean's ears were red. "Okay, we can stop talking now."

"You get it, though, right?" Sam asked anxiously.

"Yes, you love me, now let me braid your hair and we'll be doing great." Dean was trying to scowl, but wasn't quite making it.

Sam took a deep breath. "So you know why I can't lose you."

Dean's face went helplessly fond. "Yeah, you enormous girl. Now shut up."

* * *

**A/N: **you know how I said being out of school would help me in writing fanfic? LIES. I started my new job this last monday and wow I have been so tired and busy I haven't even been able to think about fanfic. Not to mention my nursing school applications. UGH. In any case, here's the next installment-i couldn't help having a Faith segment. Don't you miss S1 episodes like that? I do.

P.S. to anyone still watching the show-is the finale looking to be as ridiculous as it appears to be? I mean . . . do people still care about abbadon and crowley? I got so tired of the storyline I quit . . . idk.


	6. interneurons

"I'm just saying, we should hit Vegas again," Dean said absently.

"You're hilarious," Sam returned, poring over his—previously Dean's until Sam had taken it over right after Stanford—laptop.

"Well, then plan on hitting the bars." Dean kept his tone light . . . it wasn't that he was hesitant around Sam, it was after their—well, after Dean had been the one reading Sam's mind, things were a little off.

"Joy," Sam deadpanned.

Dean grinned. "C'mon, it'll be fun."

"At least I can make sure none of the girls you go off with have any diseases," Sam muttered, finally snapping the laptop shut and stretching.

"Spoil all of my fun," Dean said, expecting and gleefully receiving a classic bitch face.

"Yes, because HIV is fun," Sam growled.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine, wingman. Let's do this."

Dean wasn't a bad brother, but he still felt a little bad abandoning Sam for a quick night out. His brother was old enough to take care of himself, he reasoned, but there was always a feeling that Sam shouldn't be so . . . well, alone.

That feeling was only tripled as Dean came back to a motel room and Sam wasn't on his bed asleep.

"Sam?"

"Dean," Sam whimpered.

In an instant, Dean had gone into high alert, slamming his way into the room and vaulting over the bed to where Sam was slumped in-between the two.

"Sam, what is it?" His little brother looked wrecked, and Dean's eyes darted around the room, looking for some kind of threat.

"I can hear him, Dean, he's dying, I don't, he's so far away, why—"

"Sammy, focus on me. Hey." Dean took a hold of Sam's face and turned Sam to face him. "Remember? You can go into my mind. Promise. Focus, block them all out."

Sam groaned and grabbed Dean's arm. "We have to go. It's—Michigan. Please, Dean, now."

All too often, Dean tended to second-guess any decisions of Sam. Something ingrained in his older brother identity and overbearing tendencies that Dean knew annoyed Sam. At this point, though, Dean was willing to go along with Sam, so long as he could get the pain off of his littler brother's face.

* * *

"You weren't wrong," Dean said, casting a worried glance at Sam. "So you felt this guy die? Any idea why him?"

Sam shook his head, lips pinched. "Maybe my powers are growing."

"To find some guy who was dying hours away rather than someone in the nearby hospital?" Dean said skeptically. The lights of the cop cars were casting Sam's face in flashes of red and blue, and Dean drew his brother back by the elbow. "C'mon, we'll go get a room and come back in the morning."

"Something's wrong," Sam muttered. "I can't figure out what it is, though."

"Which is why we'll come back," Dean said patiently. "Sometime before you fall over."

Grudgingly, Sam went with him.

As soon as they got a room, Dean flopped down on the bed. He could sense Sam coming to stand next to him and unwillingly cracked open an eye. "What is it, Sammy?"

"Aren't you freaked?" Sam said in a rush.

"I'm always freaked out by your hair, Sammy," Dean mumbled.

"Not funny, Dean."

With a sigh, Dean rolled onto his back. "Dude. Relax. We've handled everything your psychic juju has thrown at us. No reason for this to be different, got it?"

"Got it," Sam whispered. He moved into the bathroom, allowing Dean some breathing room.

"Ten bucks says he won't sleep tonight," Dean told the ceiling seriously before closing his eyes and dropping off himself.

Morning dawned, and Sam's shadowed eyes confirmed Dean's bet. Not that the ceiling would be paying him anything.

"Alright, so let's go crash a funeral party," Dean said briskly, clapping his hands together. "Because I'm a genius, I know just how we'll do this."

* * *

"I hate you so, so, much," Sam said fervently, pulling at his collar.

Dean smirked. "Yeah, you do."

For a moment, Sam looked alarmed. "No, I actually don't."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "So, did Stanford take away your ability to sense sarcasm, or is that just the lack of sleep you got last night?"

"Shut up," Sam muttered, pressing the doorbell. "You do the talking so I can concentrate."

Dean didn't have time to say anything before the door opened. He stepped in smoothly with their cover story—being priests meant getting into _anywhere_, they would definitely have to save the costumes—and got them inside. Dean felt Sam shadowing him and focused on drawing attention in the conversation to himself so Sam wouldn't get any weird looks for the constipated expression he got from using his telepathy.

Once they were finally left sitting alone, Dean turned to Sam. "Verdict?"

"Mostly ordinary, grief . . . the guy wasn't super nice, though," Sam mumbled. "There's something . . . The corner—"

Dean flashed a look. "Kid. Doesn't look like a threat, just a very emo kid. Why, what's your read?"

A line was between Sam's eyebrows. "I can't. I can't read him."

Dean stiffened. "So, what are we thinking? Shifter?"

"I'll find out." Sam stood, moving over to the kid before Dean could ask what the plan was. Instead, he watched tensely from the sidelines as Sam said some probably soothing words, and then reached around his neck. Dean blinked in surprise as he drew out a silver cross on a chain and passed it over. Sam had really taken this priest thing seriously.

Both of them watched intently as the kid handled the cross, but there was no reaction to the silver.

Sam must have said something else, because he then stood with another murmur of platitudes and moved back to Dean. "Let's get out of here," he said.

"Sure." Dean waited until they were outside to speak again. "So, what do you think?"

"I think he's the one doing it. But I don't think he's supernatural."

"Well, he could be possessed—" Dean started, but Sam shook his head.

"Coated my hand in holy water before I shook his. He's not possessed."

Dean was mildly impressed, but that left them with nothing. "Well, good thinking, wearing the cross. Really played the part to the hilt."

Sam was silent, and Dean threw him a glance.

"I, uh, I wear that. Most of the time."

Wrong-footed, Dean opened his mouth but nothing came out. "Right," he finally said, not ready to dive in and learn another facet of his brother yet. "So, you think the kid killed his dad?"

Sam rubbed his forehead. "Maybe. We'll have to keep an eye on the family."

* * *

Keeping an eye on the family had turned into a chase after the uncle, another death, and a realization of Max's real guilt. Dean, however, was mostly worried about Sam, who kept connecting to the members of Max's family in alarming ways, not to mention his deep belief that he and Max were the same. Grimly, Dean tended to Max's step-mom as Sam stayed downstairs with Max and a gun in Max's hand. He tried, quietly, to project to Sam, but got no feedback—most likely, Sam was completely focused on Max.

Dean didn't bother to hide his anxiety from the step-mom, for the most part ignoring her. From the little Sam had projected into his head, Sam planned on talking Max down, and since when had that ever worked?

Dean's thoughts were interrupted by a gunshot, and Dean's heart stopped.

Slamming out of the bedroom and vaulting down the stairs, he made his way into the living room and found Sam half-standing, arms raised in some pleading position, Max dead at his feet with the gun in his lax hand.

"Sam!" Dean barked, grabbing his brother roughly. Sam resisted for a moment, eyes blank as he gazed at Max's body until Dean got into his line of sight.

"Sammy," he said, softer this time. "Focus. Are you hurt?"

Sam wasn't responding, so Dean slapped him lightly on the cheek. "Hey, c'mon, bro. Look at me."

"He was like me, Dean, he was just like me."

Dean swore under his breath and glanced at the step-mother, who was also staring at the body in shock. "Okay, we're going to call the cops, Sam, and you and I are cousins and were here to talk him down. He got the gun himself, probably illegally, got it?"

Sam nodded, but Dean was not convinced. Still, they each had their strengths. Sam was at connecting with the victims—Dean thought of Max and winced, and so did Sam, crap he had caught the tail-end of that thought—and Dean was better at crowd control. Or in this case police control.

He extracted them relatively easily from the clutches of the police, got them back to their motel room and grabbed pizza for dinner. All in the day's work for a hunter. Now, it was time to take on his older brother duty.

"Sam? What happened back there?" Dean asked gently.

Sam began twisting his hands together. "I didn't . . . I thought I was getting through to him, but I think he wanted concrete answers. I couldn't explain why we had our powers, and he got upset."

"He try to shoot you?" Dean checked.

"No. I mean, I sort of caught his thought—he might have wanted to, but he just really wanted to kill his step-mother. He was focused on her, and he was willing to go through you, and I—"

"What?"

Sam's eyes slid to the left, usually Sam's tell for a bluff. But there was no reason for Sam to lie . . . "I guess something snapped, then he shot himself."

Dean nodded, relieved at the straightforward end to the story. "Well, you did all you could."

Sam nodded, opening his mouth and then closing it.

"What, Sammy?"

"I—nothing. It just . . . doesn't it scare you? What I can do? I don't want to be like Max, Dean. I can't."

"You won't be."

"How? Look at us. It's not like there's anything making me different from him."

"You've got me," Dean said firmly. "And as long as I'm around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you." He reached into his pocket. "I snagged this for you," he said awkwardly, passing the cross to Sam, who took it with hesitant fingers.

Sam swallowed and sank onto the bed. "Thanks, Dean," he said softly.

Dean was pretty sure he was missing something. Clapping a hand on Sam's shoulder briefly, Dean headed to the shower. There was only so much he could do.

* * *

**A/N: **trudging along, darlings. So, I know you're probably wondering why I didn't have Sam tell Dean about the telekinesis-I think a lot of Sam's openness with Dean in the show would've come from his inability to not read Dean completely. He might've believed the "nothing bad will happen to you" line. Whereas this Sam can read Dean's mind. And would very much realize Dean's insecurities.

IDK. In any case, let me know what you thought! And maybe give me your predictions about how this will end up (I already have some ideas, but it will be funny to look back and see what people might've thought)


	7. terminals

Sam didn't tell Dean. He felt terrible for keeping secrets—he had kept the telepathy from Dean for a short while, and that had made him feel awful—but he had no choice. It wasn't necessarily that Sam thought these . . . powers . . . were evil. Though more and more, he thought they might be. When Max had tried to push Sam with his telepathy, it hadn't worked. And then Sam had stopped the bullet Max had shot, turning it around and sending it through Max's brain.

He hadn't meant to do it. At least, that was what Sam was telling himself so that he didn't go insane. Sam had caught the thought that Max was having—killing Dean to get to his step-mother—and had reacted.

But he was a killer. Dean couldn't know. Sam couldn't stand having Dean look at him like a freak, one of the monsters they killed.

"I need to hit the head." Dean shoved at Sam's shoulder. "Wait for me at the car."

Sam lived off of his brother's affection, and he wasn't willing to give that away. So he smiled blandly. "Don't get lost."

Dean guffawed. "Yeah, you're hilarious. Get out of here."

Sam was so lost in thought that he didn't even see the blow coming until it was too late.

* * *

Everything was spinning and syrupy and he was . . . Sam? That was his name. Maybe. Or maybe not. He ate human flesh and laughed at the whimpering cries of prey, he was the hunter incarnate and—

Dean. Sam ignored the other voices in his head and focused. He could find Dean.

He just had to . . . reach and oh it hurt he couldn't, _Dean_.

_"Sammy? Sam, where are you, are you okay—"_ Sam swallowed back nausea "_Please be okay, please."_

"Dean."

_"Sam?"_ There was fear, and Sam couldn't tell if it was his own or his brother's, was he afraid? Why would Dean be afraid, was he in a cage too?

"Dean."

_ "Sammy, I need you to focus. What hurts?"_

Sam couldn't stop his emotions from spilling over, terror and fear and he was going to die. "Head." It throbbed.

_ "Okay, Sammy, focus. Focus on my voice. Now, where are you?"_

"Cage." He was a freak, they were going to hunt him like the monster he was, he had always known—

There was a stab of refusal that didn't come from Sam, and he stopped.

_ "Sam. Please." _There was a long silence, and then there was a vague sensation of worry

"Love you. In barn, dark, cold."Sam went silent—his head hurt so much he couldn't hold up he needed his shields—

There was someone in the cage next to him. Sam held his head cautiously and looked over. "Hello?"

"We're gonna die here."

Sam instantly hated his mind, full of despair and darkness and a bitterness that turned his thoughts sour.

"We'll get out," he said, his tongue stumbling over the words. His head hurt so much, he couldn't focus.

"Yeah right, kid."

"My brother. He'll . . . he'll find me."

The man laughed. "Uh huh. Just watch. I've been here a whole day. They haven't let me out, and at this point, I just hope they kill you before me."

One last surge of the man's bitterness allowed Sam the strength to put up his walls. He had to . . . he had to focus. That's what Dean told him to do. Sam tentatively tried to reach out again, but he had lost the uncontrollable surge of power that had enabled him to initially find Dean.

For the first time in a while, Sam was completely alone.

* * *

Time passed in strange long segments. Sam thought he was probably experiencing some bad side effects from having his head hit. Maybe. Everything was definitely off, though, and he and his fellow prisoner were not fed or given any water, which didn't help.

He was sitting in a daze when suddenly the other guy's latch was buzzed open. Sam sat up quickly, jolting his head and groaning.

"Did you do that?"

"No. I don't care what it is, but I'm getting out of here."

Sam grabbed at his own bars. "No, wait, it's probably a trap!"

"Yeah? Well, sorry but I don't care. This is my best shot."

"No!" Sam hissed, but the man was already leaving. Trembling, Sam opened his mind and latched onto the other man's. He ignored the terror and adrenaline, focusing on the surroundings. He had to know, so he could tell Dean.

All too soon, the man was chased into the forest. The sheer amount of fear rolling off of him was channelled straight through Sam, his own breathing speeding up and his palms sweaty where they clutched the bars.

Sam felt him die and heard the shot simultaneously, crashing back into his own mind with an overwhelming sense of desperate fear.

* * *

Sam was lost in a strange space of sickness and fear when he felt Dean's mind again. Immediately he reached out, desperately latching on and trying to make sure he was real. He could sense Dean's inability to cope with Sam's overwhelming presence, so he tried to pull himself back.

"Dean!"_ DeanDeanDeanDeanaliveneedyou. _

_ "Sammy, I'm almost to you, hold on, relax." _

With effort, Sam was able to control his telepathy. He sobbed in a deep breath and focused himself. "Where are you?"

_ "Coming towards you, buddy. Focus. Where are you?"_

"Barn." Sam strengthened their link so Dean could follow it to him. Dean drew closer and closer, and then finally, _finally_, Dean was there.

"Hey Sammy. It is good to see you, little brother."

"Dean," Sam said with far too much desperation.

Dean's facade of lightheartedness faded away, and his brother put his hand on top of Sam's where the bars allowed him to grip. "Hey. No worries, we'll get you out of here."

"It's automated, you need a key," Sam told him.

"Right. Wait here, I'll get it."

Panic surged up, sour in Sam's throat. "No! You can't, they'll kill you! They eat people, Dean, there are too many, you can't—"

"I've got back up, Sammy. Don't worry man, I've got this."

Sam watched, helpless, as Dean left. He followed Dean with his mind, ignoring the amused cues of Dean's mind as he noticed Sam was there.

He could only scream in rage and terror as Dean was taken by surprise, despite Sam's warnings. Sam observed through Dean's eyes as they heated up a poker and oh, no, they couldn't he wouldn't let them he had to stop, they had to _get away from his brother_—

Sam woke up to Dean's hands on his shoulders, shaking him and a high pitched whining in his ears.

"Sa—Sammy, what did you do, you idiot. C'mon, snap out of it."

"Dean?" Sam mumbled. He wasn't sure what happened next, just that Dean managed to shuffle them out of there after talking to someone and stealing one of the junkers the cannibalistic family had used.

"You are a self-sacrificing idiot, and I swear if you do that again I will punch you in the face and then I will dye your hair green. You hear that? Green. Yeah. No, I lied, it's going to be pink. Because you are a moron."

Sam tried to ask him what he was talking about, but only managed to set off something fiery and painful in his brain. He whimpered, clutching at his head.

"That doesn't mean rip out your hair, Sam, stop! Dude, c'mon, relax. Don't think about anything. Uh, think about puppies. And dinosaurs, you used to be obsessed with dinosaurs."

Sam blinked, attempting to focus on Dean. "Wha' happened?"

"What happened is that you're an idiot!"

"Huh?" Sam tried to make sense of Dean's words, but it wasn't working.

"You stopped them, Sam. Stopped them dead still, like they were frozen."

"Wha—"

"Look, don't think about it. Sammy, you're going to hurt yourself, I know that look. C'mon, focus on something calm."

"Calm," Sam repeated dumbly. One of Dean's hands rested on his head while the other was on the wheel. "Calm. You hurt?"

"Thanks to you, no. Sleep, Sam."

Sam had far too many questions, but he couldn't help but obey his brother when he used that tone.

* * *

He woke up with a splitting headache and too many questions to handle, Dean at his side.

"Alright Sam. Before you have an aneurysm. Focus. What did you do while you were in the cage?"

"When?" Sam rubbed his forehead wearily.

"When I went in the house."

"I don't . . . I don't know. Why?"

"Because as soon as they got near me with a burning poker, you stopped them," Dean said softly.

Sam could definitively tell the blood was draining away from his face. "I killed them?"

"No, no, don't pass out." Dean's eyes were vibrant green, not the washed out fear Sam was expecting. "They just . . . froze. Long enough for the cop to come in and get me out."

"Cop?"

Dean grinned. "Took a bit to convince her I wasn't crazy and that you were psychic. I'm pretty sure that stunt figured her."

Sam automatically returned to his the subject of his powers. "Froze?"

"Like time stopped."

Sam shuddered. "I didn't even . . . I didn't try to do that."

Dean's face went serious. "I know. You nearly killed yourself. You can't do that again."

Sam made up his mind. "No more powers."

Dean paused. "Wait, you mean—"

"Not at all. Not for anything. We saw how Max used his powers, and now this—these powers may be good or evil, we don't know, but it's too much power. I won't use them anymore."

Dean frowned. "I thought it was hard for you to shield?"

"I'll deal with it."

"You're sure?" Dean was completely aligned to Sam, attention in every line of his body.

"I'm positive," Sam said determinedly.

"Unless it's an emergency, Sam," Dean clarified. "If you're in danger."

Sam bit his lip. "Yeah," he lied. But in his own mind, he rephrased, _"if Dean's in danger."_

* * *

**A/N: **I can't decide exactly how I'm going to end this. Should I kill someone? *evil laugh*

I'm too much of a sap to do that though. In any case, we're a decent portion through, I think. Hope you enjoyed, let me know what you thought :)


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